


Journey to Manhood

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: Waterman [14]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1910s, Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - 20th Century, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bisexual Male Character(s), Boats and Ships, Consent Issues, Courage, Ethical Issues, Family, Friendship, Historical slash, Male Friendship, Master & Servant, Multi, Nephews - Freeform, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Queer Gen, Uncles, abuse issues, don't need to read other stories in the series, fishermen, gen - Freeform, liege lords, liegemen, master & slave, original gen, servantfic, slash subplot, slavefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: "Perhaps, when they spoke next, the other young man could tell Simmons of any masters here who were in need of an apprentice who was perilously close to the age of journeymanship."Simmons has been waiting all his life for the day when he would come of age and pledge his service to a liege-master. But at the last minute, all his plans go awry; he is left in the awful position of having to find a liege-master quickly. Desperation may force Simmons to pick the worst of liege-masters.Working at his uncle's waterfront store on a bay island, Simmons seeks a way out of his dilemma. Then another young man walks through the door, one whose problems may be even worse than Simmons's. . . .Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.





	1. Chapter 1

_The year 603, the fourth month. (The year 1962 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)_  


**CHAPTER ONE**

"_Please_ let me help with the store, Uncle Will!" 

His uncle looked doubtful. He was nearing the end of his middle age and had creases across his brow that had been accumulated during the raising of his youngest son. But now all three of his sons had left home, and his daughters were living with their husbands, so he generally appeared more carefree these days. "That's not why you're here, Jasper. You're a man now; you owe service only to your liege-master." 

Jasper Simmons – known to his former schoolfellows simply as Simmons – shook his head. "My coming of age is still a month away. And as for my liege-master . . ." He swallowed. "Till then, couldn't I help you with the store? I've done so in the past." 

"That was when you were a child." His uncle examined Simmons's face before relenting with a smile. "I can see why you'd want to hold onto these final, golden days of childhood. Yes, very well. You'll find that my new store is ordered much the same as the one I owned in the capital." 

"But you attract a different type of customer here, don't you?" As he spoke, Simmons turned his gaze toward the rest of the store: tables piled high with slate pencils and scissors and thimbles and other items perused by watermen's wives, showcases filled with shirtwaists and paper collars, bins heaped with coffee beans or garden seeds, a lunch counter showcasing cheese and crackers, shelves overflowing with chewing tobacco and turpentine and canned goods, and racks loaded with feed and flour. Above them, hanging on the wall, were clusters of items so thick that they crowded the eyes: hand-carved trail-boards from old boats, the skin of a water moccasin, a waterman's whittling, oak buckets, traps for muskrats, and on pride of display, newly carved oyster tongs, waiting to be sold and taken aboard and plunged into the Bay to harvest oysters. 

The store sold nothing fancy, like in the stores of the Third Landstead's capital which Simmons had often visited – nothing that would interest a first-ranked master and mastress. 

Simmons never grew bored, exploring the store's contents. 

At that moment, the door opened. A light spring breeze, fresh with the smell of Bay water, entered the store, along with a waterman, unmistakable in his oilskin hat and coat and boots. Simmons caught a flash of the man's rank-mark on the back of his right wrist as he removed his gloves: black. 

The servant wasted no time in the doorway; he limped forward as Simmons's uncle said, "Ah, Sol. I'm glad to see you up and about. How's that leg of yours doing?" 

"None too good." The servant's reply was so brief, and without proper salutation, that Simmons might have thought the waterman rude, but he noticed that the man had carefully removed his hat the moment that the owner of the general store spoke. 

His uncle, at any rate, seemed to treat his remark as inoffensive. "I'm sorry about that – very sorry indeed. But you've found a new captain, I hear? How have the oysters been this winter?" 

Sol shook his head as he removed a list from within his coat. "None too good neither. Way I figure, all the right good ones've been stole by those dredgers from the Western Shore." 

His uncle sighed. "It's very sad, very sad indeed that there's such animosity between our landstead and the Second Landstead. That their boats should take oysters from our own territory . . . Ah, well, oyster season is over. And Captain Harvey is doing well, I suppose, if he could afford to hire you as his new man." 

Sol shrugged as he laid the list on a lard barrel next to Simmons's uncle. "Needed couple more servants for his boat. He's still short a man. Come autumn, he'll be looking for more watermen." 

"Really? He needs more crew, with all the watermen on this island?" Simmons's uncle took the list and peered at it through his spectacles. 

"'Deed he do. He's like to hire a full-grown man, but an oyster-shucking boy would do." Sol's gaze wandered over to Simmons. After a moment, Simmons realized why, and he felt his face grow flush. 

Travelling from the capital to Hoopers Island had been no problem; Simmons had simply hired a boat with most of the remaining money his father had given him for the brief period during which he would still need his family's income, before his liege-master should begin paying him. But Simmons's belongings had been a greater problem. He had not anticipated having to move them further than the bedroom that had long awaited him in the house of his liege-master's father. 

With his plans turned awry, he had been forced to dispose of all but his most precious goods. Fortunately, school term had only just ended; he had been able to give many of his belongings to the servant who had tended his study-bedroom at Capital School. 

His trunks, he had sent down to Hoopers Island by road. He had taken care to hire an automobile, naively believing that, with such a swift means of transportation, his trunks would be awaiting him when he arrived by boat. 

His uncle had smothered a laugh when he heard this, then had patiently explained that most of the marshy roads between the capital and Hoopers Island were not yet paved. The roads on Hoopers Island were. The pavement consisted of logs and oyster shells. 

Feeling very much an ignorant townboy, and envisioning the automobile wallowing in the mud – or even sinking without a trace in the marshes – Simmons had made do as best he could. His uncle, a portly man, had no clothes that would fit the new arrival, and his uncle's apprentice was several sizes too small. So Simmons – by now grateful for anything that would cover his body – had borrowed clothing from his uncle's manservant, a waterman who spent most of his days making deliveries by boat. 

His uncle, looking up from the list and seeing Sol's gaze upon Simmons, seemed to realize the mistake that the waterman had made. Characteristically, he did not reprimand the erring servant. Placing his arm across Simmons's shoulder, he said, "This is my nephew, Jasper Simmons. His journeymanship birthday is coming next month, so he's staying with us this month while he decides which master he wishes to pledge his liege-service to." 

Sol did not embarrass Simmons by asking, "Why did you wait till now?" But neither did he dip his eyes, as any well-trained servant would ordinarily do under such circumstances. All that he said was, "Right glad to meet you . . . sir." 

The slight pause could have been taken any number of ways, but Simmons, staring into the waterman's eyes, suddenly realized that this was a servant who rarely addressed masters as sir. 

Smiling at the special courtesy he had just been granted, Simmons said, "I'm glad to meet you as well, Servant Sol." 

Then, and only then, did the waterman dip his eyes. And Simmons realized that he had been granted a deep courtesy indeed. Simmons wondered what, by all that was sacred, he had done to earn such honor. 

His uncle squeezed Simmons's arm in some sort of silent accolade. "I won't keep you, Sol; I know you're busy. Some of these items will have to be wrapped. Your boat-master still docks at Back Creek? I'll have my apprentice bring the goods over, then." 

"Master Simmons." Sol's slight nod of farewell encompassed both uncle and nephew; then he turned away. 

At the doorway, he paused. Another man had just arrived, wearing a wool coat against the spring chill. He made some brief greeting, and Sol, hearing the man's refined accent, carefully stepped to one side to let the master enter. 

"That's a good man," said Simmons's uncle softly as the door shut behind Sol. "A very good man. I'm glad you didn't take offense at his mistake." 

"Why should I?" Simmons laughed as he turned to his uncle, but he kept his voice low as well, so as not to disturb the newly arrived master, who was now at the other end of the store, fingering a bottle of morphine. 

His uncle raised his eyebrows. "Some masters would be very offended indeed to be mistaken for a servant." 

"Oh, but I look like a servant at the moment." Simmons stared down at his shabby clothing. "It's not his fault. I suppose I ought really to change out of these, lest I mislead—" 

A bell, higher in pitch than a fog-bell, interrupted his speech. His uncle glanced out the window facing the water and said, "Postal boat. It's early today." 

"Shall I help you bring in the mail, Uncle?" asked Simmons. 

"No, no, my lad. You stay here and tend the customers." His third-ranked uncle patted Simmons's shoulder somewhat awkwardly. 

Simmons could understand why. He was still becoming used to it himself, his rise in rank. At school, he had always held the awkward position of being the son of a third-ranked master who was very, very rich. Now, after many years, the Third Landstead's House of Government had eased the lack of alignment between their family's wealth and rank by granting to Simmons's father the title of Envoy Extraordinary, assigning him duties in an overseas nation in the Old World and raising him to second rank. 

Until that time, as a third-ranked lad, Simmons's choices were clear: as a journeyman, he could train under his father, under a third-ranked master, or under a second-ranked master – _not_ under a first-ranked master, as he futilely tried to point out to his first-ranked schoolfellow Eugene on many occasions. 

But now Simmons was second-ranked. He could train under a first-ranked master. He could even pledge his liege-loyalty to that master. 

"I _told_ you it would work out," Eugene had squealed, hugging the older boy on the day that Simmons received the news of his eligibility to be Eugene's liegeman. And Simmons had hugged Eugene back, stunned and joyful at this turn of events. 

But it had not worked out – not in the end. Turning his thoughts from this recent, raw sorrow, Simmons centered his attention on the other master in the room. 

On this cool spring day, the young man was wearing a long coat whose collar was turned up, as well as gloves that hid his rank-mark. Probably not a first-ranked master, thought Simmons, well used to this popular schoolboy past-time of guessing a man's rank from his behavior. A first-ranked master would be unlikely to visit a store; he had many servants for that sort of thing. A second-ranked master would likely have brought one of his servants. Perhaps a third-ranked master, who possessed only one or two house servants? Many of the boat-masters at Hoopers Island were third-ranked, Simmons knew. 

Confident now that he was dealing with someone who, at the very least, was not higher-ranked than himself, Simmons departed from his position behind the counter. A glance through the window told him that his uncle was busy chatting with the postal boat-master. One of the advantages of shop-keeping, his uncle had mentioned with a smile, was the chance to talk with men of many stations and occupations. 

The wool-coated master was standing still, apparently absorbed in thought by the tins of seafood. "Hello," said Simmons, striving for friendliness. "Do you need help?" 

The master turned. His face, which Simmons had only briefly glimpsed before, was young – he looked journeyman-aged. Perhaps, Simmons thought, the master was a second-ranked journeyman sent on a mission by his liege-master. At any rate, the young master seemed to have made up his own mind about Simmons. After a quick glance toward Simmons's wrists – fruitless, Simmons knew, for the too-long sleeves hid his wrists – the master said, "I feel as though all my training has gone to waste. I thought I knew crab, yet here are a dozen types of crab, at prices ranging so far apart that you'd think that one type of crab was intended for servants, while another was intended for the High Master's Council." 

Simmons laughed and leaned over. "This is the one you want," he said, handing the master a tin. "Blue crab, native to our Bay. Better than the imported crabs, and twice as cheap. Though the fresh variety is better yet," he added. "All you have to do is wait a few weeks for it." 

The journeyman shook his head. "My master has plans for the week's end. Thank you." He glanced at the counter. "The shopkeeper isn't here – is there someone else I pay?" 

Truly, he must look shabby indeed if customers weren't willing to trust him with their money. "I run the register when the shopkeeper is away," Simmons assured the journeyman. "Let me take this up to the counter for you." He plucked the tin from the young master's hand. 

The young master followed him to the counter. "I don't think I've seen you here before, have I?" 

Simmons concentrated most of his thoughts on punching the numbers correctly into the cash register. "I visited the island a few months ago, for a week, but this is my first extended stay. Have you lived long on the island?" 

"I'm new to the entire area." The young master leaned in a leisurely manner upon the counter. "I only just began work for my master this spring." 

The journeyman was likely not much older than Simmons himself. Simmons wondered whether he had met the journeyman's liege-master, but there seemed no tactful way to quiz him on such matters. Instead, he said, "I'm going to be staying in this area. I just arrived." 

"Welcome, then. I'm Golding." The journeyman offered his arm. 

No way of telling whether "Golding" was a family name, a first name, or a nickname. Simmons decided to travel the safest route. "Jasper," he introduced himself as he shook the other young man's arm. "Do you live nearby?" 

"Fairly near, on the mainland." Reading the price on the register, the journeyman offered a bill from his wallet. He waited until Simmons had handed back the change and wrapped the can in brown paper, and then he said, "I shop here occasionally. Do you ever get time off from your work? We could have a drink together sometime, perhaps." 

"I'd like that," said Simmons, warmed by the offer. 

Golding flashed what Simmons suspected was a rare smile. "My own hours are irregular, but I'll look for you the next time I'm here. Till then . . ." 

"Till then," agreed Simmons, and they shook arms again. 

For a while after the young master left, the store was silent, other than the faint sound of Simmons's uncle talking to the postal boat-master, and the fainter swish of waves against the shore and wharf. The salty smell of the Bay permeated the shop, mingling with the varied smells of the dried goods which the store carried. Simmons leaned against the worn wooden counter, contemplating the pot-bellied stove in the middle of the store, where the watermen often sat and chatted, as well as the little barred area where Simmons's aunt – currently away, tending a sick sister – distributed mail to the inhabitants of Hoopers Island. 

Simmons loved the shop. He loved learning the names of the various goods, their purposes, their prices. He loved helping the customers select their goods – finding the exact object that most suited them. A friendly but somewhat shy lad, he loved being in a place where he did not have to grope for the right words to speak to strangers. His duties gave him a framework for conversations, throughout the day, with watermen and their families and the occasional mainlander. Masters and servants alike, they all interested him. 

He wondered whether he would enjoy whatever work his liege-master assigned him. He wondered whether he would ever have a liege-master. 

Sighing, he locked the register. At least now he had one friend in this place. Perhaps, when they spoke next, Golding could tell him of any masters here who were in need of an apprentice who was perilously close to the age of journeymanship. 

o—o—o

Jackie, when Simmons found him the next morning, was standing on the bit of marshland beside the road, whacking with a stick at a cattail and looking longingly down the road. 

Simmons could guess, from his short acquaintance with his uncle's apprentice, what Jackie was longing for, but he asked anyway: "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's happening." The twelve-year-old spoke these words with something close to despair. 

"It's mid-morning. Life always slows down on Hoopers Island at this time of day." 

He had said the wrong thing, he knew immediately. Jackie swung around, stick in hand, and cried, "It's _ever_ like this. This is the most boring place in the universe!" 

Recalling long sermons in school chapel that inevitably put him to sleep, Simmons had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. "What sort of excitement are you seeking?" 

"Anything!" declared Jackie comprehensively, and then whacked at the ditch at the edge of the road. The ditch-water promptly stained his bare shins black. "All the excitement happens elsewhere, on the mainland. The Fleet Master came by last month, to ask about supplies for the Hoopers Island fleet. He talked about gun-battles on the water, and debates in the High Masters' Council, and everything exciting! But here—" Jackie aimed the next thrust of his stick at a saltmarsh snail, fortunately missing it. "Nobody lives on this island who's exciting. Only boat-masters and _servants_." 

This time Simmons did smile. "Didn't your parents give you a choice how to spend your apprentice years? They let me choose between staying in school and taking up a profession." 

"School is just as boring." Jackie heaved a heavy sigh. "I thought it would be exciting here on the island. I thought there would be watermen fighting each other, just offshore. But that all happens on the other side of the island." He waved a hand in the direction of Honga River, a mere half mile to the east. "And I can't see it because I'm busy putting tins on shelves or packing big tubs with peanut butter. Everything's happening, and I can't see it!" He ended with a wail. 

"That's a great shame." Simmons kept his expression sympathetic. "Come on, my uncle is waiting for you to shelve a few more tins. I'll help you." 

But when they came inside, his uncle shooed Jackie over to the cash register and drew Simmons aside. "Can he work the register?" asked Simmons, concerned. "He doesn't seem to be very good at stocking items in the right place. I found the collar buttons mixed in with the hairpins yesterday." 

His uncle sighed. "The boy's bright, but he has no heart for this business. It worries me. I'd hoped he'd be able to take over the business when I retired, since my sons are busy elsewhere." 

Simmons nodded. All of his cousins had been attracted to the ever-present lure of Bay-fishing, leaving his uncle short-handed in the store – hence his uncle's relieved acceptance of Simmons's offer to help at the store in exchange for room and board, while he was searching for a liege-master. With his father out of his country, Simmons needed a guardian: a man who would temporarily serve as a parental figure and sign the papers which legally transferred Simmons into the care of whichever master trained him. Simmons's uncle, in turn, needed a helping hand. 

Giving no sign now that Simmons's departure would leave him short of workers again, his uncle pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket, saying with eagerness, "I think I have someone for you, Simmons – I truly do. I've been asking around, and I learned that Master Kerwin, a bachelor with no sons, is seeking a journeyman to work on the farm that Master Kerwin inherited from his great-grandfather. He's second-ranked, so you would only be able to stay with him for the four sun-cycles of your journeymanship – but oh, how very respectable he is. His liege-master is Fleet Master Fletcher, who's second hand to our landstead's High Master. With Master Kerwin's reference, you'd have no problems finding a permanent liege-master when you finished your journeyman years." 

Simmons took the envelope from him but did not pull out the letter. "He's a bachelor, sir?" 

"Oh, yes. He is fairly young, and he is busy trying to build up his career as a government clerk, so that he can afford to sell the farm in a few years. He has no plans to marry for the foreseeable future." 

Simmons winced. He had hoped for a married liege-master, with whom he would not be required to do liegeman's service. If that wasn't possible, he would have preferred a liege-master who was still an apprentice. With an apprentice-aged liege-master, Simmons would not be called upon to do liegeman's service – not until his liege-master reached journeyman years, and by that time, Simmons would be familiar with his liege-master. 

He wouldn't have minded eventually doing liegeman's service to Eugene. Eugene was bouncy and friendly and oh so happy to know Simmons. They had known each other for years, and Simmons liked him a great deal. But to do liegeman's service to a stranger . . . 

"Is something bothering you, Jasper?" His uncle frowned. 

"I'm sorry," Simmons said quickly. "Of course this is wonderful news. When is he to interview me?" 

"He has asked us to join him for dinner at week's end." His uncle continued to scan his face. "Have you heard something about Master Kerwin that you dislike? I wouldn't want to force upon you a liege-master who makes you unhappy." 

He shook his head. "I don't know anything about Master Kerwin. It's just . . . I'm a bit worried about offering him liegeman's service." 

"Bed-service?" His uncle's voice was brisk. "Well, I'm told that journeymen are often nervous about that, just as brides are often nervous on their wedding nights. I'm sure you'll find that it all comes naturally to you, if Master Kerwin requires that service of you." 

Simmons tilted his head to the side as he looked at his uncle. Further back, at the counter, Jackie was muttering angrily about useless cash registers and useless receipts and other boring things in life. "You never did liegeman's service, did you?" 

His uncle politely turned a burst of laughter into a hiccup. "Certainly not. I served my journeyman years under your late grandfather, as did your father. The law permits fathers to train their own sons and even take them as liegemen, you know." 

Simmons sighed. "I wish I could be liegeman to my father." Being liegeman to his father would mean no liegeman's service – not in the special meaning of the term. 

"Have you not told your father that?" His uncle pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he peered at Simmons. 

"Oh, he offered to train me, when I wrote to him to let him know I wouldn't be serving Eugene. He said he couldn't see me as a diplomat, but that the training might come in useful in whatever profession I chose later." 

"You did not accept his offer?" His uncle seemed fully absorbed in Simmons's tale, ignoring the sound of Jackie angrily slamming the register shut, over and over. 

"It would have meant going overseas, to a desert country. And that would mean—" 

"Leaving the Bay," his uncle concluded softly. He placed a hand lightly on Simmons's shoulder. "Well, dear boy, Master Kerwin's farm is a few miles from the Bay, but that's certainly better than living in a desert. Shall I send word to him that we accept his dinner invitation?"


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

The journey to Master Kerwin's home turned out to be more interesting than the arrival itself. 

They stopped first at Applegarth Manor, the estate manor of the House of Mollusc, where the heir to the Third Landstead held his business – or would, once he came of age. In the meantime, his regent ran the manor, as well as coordinating the affairs of the entire House, whose boundaries ran from the House of Lakesville in the south to the House of Taylors Island in the north. Even Hoopers Island lay within the boundaries of the heirship House, though Hoopers Island had been granted its own post office and a good deal of independence. 

Applegarth Manor was architecturally nowhere near as impressive as the House of Government in the capital of the Third Landstead, nor as old as the castle of the High Masters' council, which had been built during the twelfth tri-century, many tri-centuries after the New World was discovered and settled. The heirship manor looked simply like a big house: white-washed boards, grey roof. It had a barn next to it, as well as a number of smaller buildings, and it was surrounded by fields. It dated only back to the seventeenth tri-century, his uncle told him. 

Inside, the manor was bustling with full-grown masters, journeymen, and apprentices, all going about their business with alacrity. Simmons's uncle disappeared into one of the rooms to meet with his liege-master – recently appointed to the House's chamber of commerce – which left Simmons standing in a shadowed corner, staring with awe at the first-ranked masters who passed him. 

He did not have long to gawk. His uncle reappeared and took them out of the manor, back to the horse and buggy that his uncle's manservant was driving this day. Then they made their way, bumpity-bump, along the log-and-shell roads, down toward the village of Golden Hill. 

Simmons almost missed seeing the village; his uncle had to point it out to him. It consisted of a few homes and barns clustered around two crossroads, followed by a store and a mill. Then there was nothing to see except fields and tall loblolly trees, their evergreen branches brushing the sky, with an occasional farmhouse squatting lazily near the road. 

A dark huddle of cloth at the side of the upcoming road caught Simmons's eye. He leaned forward in the buggy to look. 

It was a man. Or rather, it was the remains of a man; black vultures had already pecked away at most of its face. As Simmons watched, his throat tight, another buggy, painted the blue color of the High Master's police force, stopped by the corpse, causing the vultures to scatter into the air. Simmons waited for the policeman to examine the body for signs of how the man had died. Instead, with a look of disgust, the policeman kicked the body into the marsh-waters beside the road. The body sank with a protesting gurgle. 

Alerted by Simmons's gasp, his uncle turned away from giving directions to his manservant. Upon hearing Simmons's account of the scene they had just passed, his uncle's expression turned grave. But when Simmons begged him for an explanation, all that he said was, "Second Landstead servant." 

"_Second_ Landstead?" exclaimed Simmons. The second territory within the Alliance of the Dozen Landsteads was located on the Western Shore, across the wide waters of the Bay from the Third Landstead. Because of his father's work for the Third Landstead's House of Government, Simmons had occasionally met officials from the Second Landstead, who were invariably accompanied by their servants. But what would a Second Landstead servant be doing out here, on a country road? 

The answer proved appalling. 

"They've been swarming into our landstead during the past few months," his uncle explained. "Dozens of them. Some steal boats to get here; others are watermen who jump ship when they're in our territory." 

"Heard the Second Landstead masters treat their servants right bad." It was the taciturn manservant's first contribution to the conversation. 

"But why did the man die?" asked Simmons. "And why did the policeman treat him with such contempt?" 

Simmons's uncle shook his head in a sorrowful manner. "Running away to a landstead is one matter. Finding a job here is yet another. Who wants to hire a runaway? Those poor servants have been dying in the dozens, all through the cold months. . . . They come to the store, sometimes." 

Simmons thought about this as the buggy slowed to negotiate a particularly bumpy part of the road. "To steal food?" 

"Sometimes. Sometimes just to stare at it, like it's a promise of rebirth to them. I used to give out food to any homeless servant who walked through our door, but now, with dozens of runaways in this landstead . . ." His uncle sighed, the deep sigh of a man faced with an insoluble problem. 

"We're here, sir." It was the manservant's last contribution to the conversation. 

Simmons forced away all thoughts of the corpse in the marsh and pulled out the map he had brought with him, trying to orientate himself as the buggy slowed. From what he could tell, they had reached a creek that was marked on the map – Simmons thought appropriately – as World's End Creek. Folding the map and climbing down from the buggy a minute later, Simmons could see nothing except trees and a field and a barn and what looked like a smaller version of Applegarth Manor: white-washed boards topped by a grey roof. 

Behind him, Simmons's uncle dismissed the manservant, permitting him to take his leisure elsewhere while the two masters had their dinner. It was a typically gracious gesture by his uncle, but Simmons could not help but feel as though his escape vehicle was being removed. 

If there was anything interesting inside the house, Simmons failed to notice it. Master Kerwin greeted them briefly before launching into a monologue about the state of corn harvests during the previous season, pausing only long enough to point out the stairs that would take Simmons to his room. "My valet will tend you later," he said dismissively, and then he turned back to Simmons's uncle to complain about how little attention was paid in the House of Mollusc to the financial importance of the House's farms. 

Now Simmons stood by the window, staring out at the dead field, trying to figure out who he would talk to in this place. 

His uncle had already warned him that he should remain quiet in Master Kerwin's presence. "He's a master who prefers his journeymen, apprentices, and servants to remain silent and inconspicuous until spoken to. —I'm sure he'll give you his full attention when he talks with you," his uncle added, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. 

Remain silent and inconspicuous. Simmons thought he could manage that; by nature, he was quiet, except with people he knew well – or, in the case of the young master he had met at the store, with people he formed bonds with immediately. 

He had not bonded with Master Kerwin – did not even like what he had seen of him so far. He set that thought aside, along with the question, buzzing in his mind, of whether Master Kerwin would want him silent in bed as well. 

What worried him more was that he had seen no lads his own age on the trip down from Applegarth Manor . . . except for servants, but of course they didn't count. When he asked, his uncle had smiled and said, "Most of the farmers in this area are older and trained their journeymen long ago. The former journeymen are working alongside the farmers now. Your youth will make you stand out in the crowd." He put his arm approvingly around Simmons's shoulders. 

Simmons didn't want to stand out; he wanted someone he could talk to. Working in the fields all day, supervising servants with whom there could be no easy exchange of thoughts, under a liege-master who appeared to have no interest in his thoughts . . . Would his mind grow dull and wasted? 

He placed his forearms along the windowsill. Across the road from the farm, loblolly pines screened the marshland behind them, but he could hear the call of herons and fish-crows. A lumber-cart passed, its wheels as big as a man, almost dwarfing the cart itself. There were no other people on the road. Simmons thought of the store he had left behind on Hoopers Island – always busy, always filled with watermen, either servants or their boat-masters. 

The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. He turned. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in the bright red coat of a domestic servant, his hands covered with white gloves, and his arms filled with bedding. 

For a moment, they stared at each other, neither moving. Then Simmons blurted out, "I thought you were a master!" 

"And I thought you were—" Golding stopped abruptly, and his face turned pink. But he did not lower his eyes. Neither of them lowered their eyes. 

It was Simmons who finally spoke. With a forced laugh, he held up his wrist, showing off his blue rank-mark as he said, "It's a good thing we wear these, isn't it? We'd never be able to tell each other apart otherwise." 

Golding's mouth quirked. "Indeed." He hesitated, then added, "I didn't realize that you'd already arrived, sir. I could come back later—" 

"Oh, no, please, don't let me interfere with your work. Here, I'll help you." Simmons stepped forward and scooped up the pillows from the pile in Golding's arms. He placed the pillows on a chair beside the bed. When he turned, he saw that the servant was watching him, with a quizzical look in his eyes. 

But Golding made no comment. He simply came forward, placed the remaining sheets on a table at the foot of the bed, and began to strip the current sheets from the bed. 

"You certainly do varied work," commented Simmons, struggling for something to say. "I would have thought that Master Kerwin would employ a maid for such work." 

"No, sir. Except when Master Kerwin hires extra help for dinner parties, there is only me and the cook." Golding did not look up from his work. 

"But you're from the Second Landstead, surely." Without thinking about it, Simmons picked up the pillowcases and began stuffing the pillows into them. Again, he caught a glimpse of Golding's quizzical look. Simmons wondered why; it was plain enough that Golding came from the Western Shore, now that Simmons knew he was a servant. Only Western Shore masters taught servants to read numbers. 

"Yes, sir. I belonged to Master Satterwhite, originally – he works for the Second Landstead's House of Government. When he visited Applegarth Manor last season on government business, he brought me with him. Master Kerwin took a hankering for me, so Master Satterwhite sold my certificate of employment to him." 

It was on the tip of Simmons's tongue to ask, "Didn't you have any choice in the matter?" Then he remembered what his uncle had said about employment conditions in the Second Landstead. He envisioned Golding's choice: stay with the old employer who didn't want him, stay with the new employer he didn't want . . . or try to find a job without a recommendation from his old employer. 

"You don't need a certificate of employment to be hired in the Third Landstead," he told Golding. "You can have your pick of employers. The boat-masters are always seeking crew." 

The suggestion of a smile touched Golding's face as he reached over to tuck a sheet under the mattress. "I'm no waterman. No, I'll do my best to turn my hand at the work I've been given. —Thank you, sir, but you need not do that," he added as Simmons took up the blanket to spread it out. 

Simmons hastily put down the blanket. "Am I doing it wrong? I've never been trained." 

This time, Golding was unable to hide his grin. "Nor have I. I was trained to serve at table, not to serve as valet, maid, and scullery boy combined. . . . All right, let's see whether, together, we can get this bed in order." 

They proceeded in quiet cooperation for several minutes, struggling to figure out the trick for keeping the sheet and blankets taut on the bed. Finally, when it was all through, Simmons collapsed onto the blanket. "Gee! It's as exhausting as playing a footer match. Golding . . ." He rolled onto his stomach and looked up at the servant, who was checking the level of the water in the pitcher on the washstand. "Why do you speak like a master?" 

"It is the custom for masters in the Second Landstead to teach their domestic servants to speak properly." Golding carefully moved the pitcher so that it was centered at the back of the washstand. 

"Properly! What's proper about masters' speech? It's all boring. I never got the right of it, and I weren't none too good, but oh my blessed, way I figure it, any fellow who can talk _this_ way is right smart." He laughed at Golding's expression. "I've listened to servants a lot," he explained, returning to "proper" speech. "There are lots of watermen working at the harbor in our landstead's capital." 

"Is that where you're from, sir?" Golding seemed to have forgotten about his duties; his hand absentmindedly rubbed the lip of the pitcher. 

"Originally. I was supposed to pledge my service there next month, to a boy who had promised to be my liege-master since we were both quite young. But . . ." He stared down at the blanket, tracing the lines of the oyster shells woven there. 

"He refused to pledge his protection?" Golding's voice was sympathetic. 

Simmons looked up quickly. "Oh, no. It was nothing like that. We were both eager to exchange oaths. But he's still apprentice-aged, and his father decided to move their family to the Ninth Landstead, well inland. I . . . well, I didn't want to go that far away from the Bay. I've lived next to the Bay all my life – next to brogans and bugeyes and log canoes and skiffs and watermen . . ." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the view out the window. There was nothing of that here, either. Marshland, yes – he would have that. And perhaps the creek would bring a rowboat or two downstream. He would have to be content with that. 

"I see." The sympathy was clear in Golding's voice as he stepped back from the washstand. "Well, sir, I must continue my duties." He hesitated before adding, "I have my half day tomorrow. Maybe, if you are free, I could offer you a small tour of the district?" 

Simmons felt a smile crack his face, like sun cracking dried mud. "I'd like that," he said. "And perhaps I could teach you to speak the way you would have spoken, if your previous master hadn't meddled." 

Golding said nothing. But as he left, his gaze lingered upon Simmons, as a soldier's gaze might linger on an ally in battle. 

o—o—o

The sunset was golden in the trees, like honey dripping in the sky. Simmons saw none of this after the first few minutes, for his uncle escorted him into a dark dining room, dusty with soot and with stale conversation. 

There was no sign of Master Kerwin's farming neighbors. Instead, the long dining-room table was filled with geriatric clerks from Applegarth Manor. The hired servants were equally old, and they scanned the newcomers with a disapproving eye. 

Simmons's uncle missed noticing this. He was busy beaming as one of the hired servants – not Golding, who was nowhere in sight – led him and Simmons to their seats. 

Simmons's uncle was placed on the left-hand side of their host. Simmons, much to his discomfort, was placed in the seat of honor, to the right of Master Kerwin. The hired servants looked yet more disapproving. The guests merely raised their eyebrows at each other in a knowing fashion. Simmons wondered how he would manage to choke down the first course of dinner. 

"You had a good journey?" Master Kerwin, having established to the guests his possession of Simmons, seemed contented to turn his attention to Simmons's uncle. 

"Very good," his uncle said hastily. "Very good, very pleasant." 

Several of the guests rolled their eyes. Master Kerwin, with a small, condescending smile on his face, said, "Would you like some wine, Jasper? May I call you Jasper?" 

Simmons, who hated being called Jasper by strangers, murmured something inarticulate. Master Kerwin snapped his fingers. Simmons felt rather than saw something at his elbow; he turned just as Golding withdrew from pouring the wine. 

"Oh—" Then Simmons caught his uncle's eye on him, shaking his head slightly. 

The last thing his uncle had said, before they entered the dining room, was, "It would be best to keep quiet unless you're addressed, lad. My liege-master reports that Master Kerwin dislikes idle chatter." 

Simmons bit his lip. Golding, though he must have heard the aborted attempt at a greeting, did not look Simmons's way; his face was like a mask. 

"McGee," said Master Kerwin, drawing a spoon delicately through his oyster soup, "this Vovimian wine you've brought is excellent. How were you able to afford the import duties?" 

If Master Kerwin disliked chatter at his table, he gave no sign of it in the following moments. He drew his guests into a detailed discussion of import duties and customs and other such topics that were no doubt of great interest to Master Kerwin's fellow clerks, but which caused Simmons to have to suppress several yawns. 

Simmons's uncle did his best to hold his own in the conversation, contributing information on how the import duties affected the availability of food at his store, but his cheerful friendliness was defeated in the end by the fact that nobody took the slightest notice of what he said – not even his own host, Master Kerwin. Simmons, passing on to the second course of rockfish, felt his stomach turning into a bundle of sailors' knots. 

". . . but naturally," Master Kerwin added as he waved the hired servants forward with the main course of beef, "all of these savings are to no avail if the Western Shore continues to harry us with its pirates— Sir!" 

He rose hastily to his feet. The other clerks, after a moment of startled silence, followed suit. Simmons's uncle had preceded them all; he was gesturing to Simmons to rise. 

Simmons did so, twisting his head to see who had entered the room. Standing next to a man in a manservant's livery was a little old balding man, plainly dressed, peering at them all through gold-rimmed spectacles. Simmons, reading the meaning of the gold in those spectacles, looked over at Master Kerwin. 

The latter had turned as pale as the onions on his newly arrived plate. "Master," he said, "I apologize. I had concluded that you would not be coming." 

"The High Master kept me late," replied Jeremiah Fletcher, Fleet Master of the House of Mollusc. "No, sit, sit. There is plenty of room at the table." This was to Simmons's uncle, who was offering his chair to the Fleet Master. "And plenty of lively conversation here, I'm sure." He flashed a smile at Simmons as he came to stand between Simmons and his liegeman. Golding had come forward. With his white gloves bright under the chandelier-light, he carefully brought forth a chair for his master's liege-master and helped him into it. 

Master Kerwin – who, by long-standing custom, ought to have performed this duty himself – was murmuring to one of the hired servants; as Simmons reseated himself, he caught the word "soup." The servant looked uncomfortable, as well he might, being called upon to serve two courses over again. 

"Now, then," said Fleet Master Fletcher as his own manservant shook out a napkin for him, "what is the discussion tonight?" 

"The hostile actions of the Second Landstead," Master Kerwin replied promptly. 

Everyone at the table looked startled, then attempted not to be. Only Simmons's uncle continued to pucker his forehead, as though trying to remember the imaginary discussion. 

Fleet Master Fletcher sighed heavily as Golding, positioning himself with delicate precision between Simmons and the Fleet Master, placed a flat bowl of soup in front of Master Kerwin's liege-master. "Indeed. That was the topic of my discussion with the High Master. As though it weren't bad enough that the Second Landstead sends its fleets to steal from our oyster beds, now our towns are being crowded by their servants. Runaways, with little skills to offer except to clog our streets with their homemade tents and beg for money." He paused to sip the soup. 

"Disgraceful," declared Master Kerwin with a sneer of disgust. "The High Master ought to pack the lot of them into prison." 

"Is there a law that would allow him to do so?" asked one of the clerks, in a note of mild curiosity. "Last time I checked, the Third Landstead did not possess a vagrancy law." 

"Perhaps," suggested another of the clerks, "our High Master could evoke the law about enemy soldiers. These vagrant servants are causing damage to our economy; therefore it follows that they are our enemy." 

"Well, now, really," said another clerk, "I'm not sure I would go that far. If we interpreted the law in that fashion, we could easily argue that every lazy servant we own is an enemy." He grinned at Golding, who had just stepped forward to remove the bowl that Fleet Master Fletcher had rapidly emptied. Simmons, who was sitting immediately next to where Golding stood, felt the servant's body stiffen as he reached for the bowl. But the servant's face revealed nothing. 

"That was a delightful repast," the Fleet Master said to Master Kerwin. "I would like a second bowl." 

"Certainly, master." Master Kerwin snapped his fingers at Golding, who bowed in acknowledgment of the wordless order. He went through the door leading to the kitchen. 

"Now, as to laws," said Fleet Master Fletcher, turning his attention to the conversation. "We don't have the time to gather up dozens of homeless men and women, much less pay the expenses of putting them through trials. We need a way to rid ourselves of this useless group of people." 

"But—" 

Startled, everyone turned to look. Simmons bit his lip. He had not meant to speak, although his body had begun to turn hot with anger at the nature of the conversation. 

"Boy, be still!" said Master Kerwin in an awful voice. Then, to his own master: "Sir, I am sorry. I invited this lad as a prospective journeyman, but it is clear that he has not received proper training during his apprentice years." 

Simmons's uncle looked dismayed. Fleet Master Fletcher simply smiled. "No, no," he said. "It is the nature of youth to be eager. Clearly, he is a well-mannered young man, from his demeanor and current silence. You had a thought, young . . ." He left the sentence unfinished. 

"Simmons, sir. Jasper Simmons." 

"Ah, yes, I've met your father. He's our new envoy, is he not?" Fleet Master Fletcher smiled at Simmons. "If you have been exposed to diplomatic talk, I imagine that you may have the solution to our problems with the Third Landstead?" His voice was gently jocular, his pat on the hand erasing the insult. 

Master Kerwin was glaring at Simmons. Everyone else at the table appeared amused, other than his uncle, who was visibly anxious, gripping the table tightly. Simmons hesitated, but he had been asked a question, and so he said, "I was wondering, sir, why the High Master regards the Third Landstead servants as useless." 

"The Fleet Master just explained that," Master Kerwin snapped. "They have no skills. Do not speak if you are unable to listen." 

The Fleet Master put up his hand. "Thank you, Kerwin, but the question was addressed to me. —Young man," he added, "I believe that I understand the direction of your thoughts, but we are talking of dozens of servants, with few skills and no masters, who have shown their disloyalty to their former masters by running away." 

Simmons was keenly aware of Golding entering the room with the bowl of soup. "Yes, sir, but they could be trained. Is it not true, sir, that your fleet is badly in need of crewmen at the moment?" 

Fleet Master Fletcher raised his eyebrows. Master Kerwin, seeing Golding pause in his service, waved him impatiently forward. 

Simmons was barely aware of him. Absorbed in his excitement now, he said, "The Second Landstead must be bleeding, sir – drained of its manpower. You could turn the runaways into a weapon against the Second Landstead by making clear that you welcome new servants to the Third Landstead. Then, once they were trained, they could become crewmen on your boats – a second weapon against the Second Landstead!" 

"Hmm." This was the Fleet Master's unrevealing response as the older man turned his head to reach for his stemmed glass of water. 

"And then more servants would flee the Second Landstead," predicted Simmons as his uncle reached down to pick up a napkin he had dropped. "_Thousands_ more!" He opened his arms broadly, embracing the multitude— 

—and proceeded to knock the bowl of oyster soup from Golding's hands into the Fleet Master's lap. 

o—o—o

The next few moments had the same sort of terror that Simmons imagined would occur if a servant's skiff collided bow-to-starboard against the Fleet Master's steel battleship. 

There were shouts of anger from Master Kerwin, shouts of sympathy from the Fleet Master's manservant, shouts of offered assistance from the guests, and a wordless shout of dismay from Simmons. 

Amidst all the confusion, only two men remained silent: Fleet Master Fletcher, rising to his feet in order to allow his manservant to wipe the mess off his trousers, and Golding, standing still and pale, the half-empty soup bowl in his hands. 

It did not take long for Master Kerwin to decide on a target for his anger. "You!" He pointed a finger at his servant. "You clumsy oaf!" 

Golding kept his eyes lowered, saying nothing. Simmons opened his mouth to defend the innocent servant. Then he noticed that his uncle – who had missed seeing the central point of the previous drama – was trying to catch his eye. His uncle shook his head vigorously. 

Simmons subsided into his chair, his stomach churning. Beside him, Master Kerwin continued his tirade until the Fleet Master, barely looking up, said, "That will do, liegeman. Take your servant into the next room; a dinner party is not the place to issue reprimands and punishment." 

At the final word, there was a collective hiss of indrawn breaths from Master Kerwin's hired servants. Master Kerwin, on the other hand, looked positively gleeful at this clear hint of the action his liege-master desired. "You," he said to Golding as he stood up. "Entry hall." 

Golding, still pale and mute, carefully laid down the bowl of soup at the Fleet Master's place. The Fleet Master did not look his way; he flicked a hand at his kneeling manservant, who withdrew, having cleaned off as much of the mess as he could. Showing himself a true waterman, prepared to undertake his duty no matter how ill the conditions, the Fleet Master proceeded to sit down and pick up his spoon. He then turned to address Simmons. "You were saying, before the interruption . . ." 

Simmons could not speak. He could hear now – everyone in the dining room must be able to hear – the steady crack occurring at long intervals in the entry hall, like the deep tick of a grandfather clock. The Fleet Master paid it no mind, sipping his soup. The other guests followed his cue. The extra servants withdrew from the room. Only Simmons's uncle appeared disturbed, flinching at each crack. 

Simmons began to feel his stomach roil. "Excuse me, sir," he heard himself say to the Fleet Master. "I must leave, I am afraid." 

The Fleet Master nodded, unperturbed. "The facility you seek is in a small room at the top of the stairs," he informed Simmons. "I'll look forward to hearing the rest of your proposal when you return." He smiled at Simmons. 

Simmons said nothing. The only door from the dining room led through the entry hall. He slipped through it, and then found himself pausing at the foot of the stairs. 

Golding had been placed against the wall under the stairs. He was stripped to the waist. His entire torso was covered in sweat. Red marks striped his back. 

He was resting his forehead against his arm. As Simmons took the first step onto the stairs, however, the step creaked. Golding turned his head. Their gazes met for one long, wordless moment. 

Then, as Master Kerwin drew back his arm for another lash, Simmons fled up the stairs. 

There was no time to search for the room with the commode. Instead, he managed to reach his guest room and find the chamber-pot inside the washstand before he vomited. 

When he had wiped his mouth clean with his handkerchief, he went to stand by the window, cold and shaking. Through the floorboards, he could hear the sound of laughter from the dinner party, then the sound of Fleet Master Fletcher, welcoming back his liegeman to the party. The conversation continued, level and lively, as though nothing had happened. 

Through the window, the loblolly pines turned dark under the dying sunlight. 

Simmons swung abruptly away from the window. He found his overnight pack – Golding had not yet unpacked its contents – and hefted it over one shoulder. Then he hurried to the stairs. 

The entry hall was empty, the dining room door closed. Simmons tiptoed to the main door and across the porch; then he ran till he reached the road. 

He paused there, looking back at the house. Nobody seemed to be sending retriever hounds after him. He swiftly looked down the stretch of road which he and his uncle had taken to reach this point, then shook his head and turned his path toward World's End Creek. 

It was a pleasant walk. The summer evening was mild, and there were fewer mosquitoes in the air than Simmons was used to on Hoopers Island. From the fields nearby came the lazy sound of cattle and of a horse-drawn plow, taking advantage of the final moments of sunlight. Simmons reflected, as he walked, that he could probably grow used to this inland landscape over time. 

He did not pause in his journey. Oyster shells cracked under his feet as he made his way down the road. Eventually he reached the bridge over the creek. And there, in a small, sail-furled boat tied to a sapling on the bank, perusing an illustrated catalogue of the latest boat models, sat Servant Sol. 

He looked up when Simmons approached. His eyes held no surprise. "Want a ride back?" he asked. 

Simmons hesitated. He had intended to simply order any waterman-servant he happened across to take him back to Hoopers Island. The practice was common enough among young masters who found themselves bereft of other transport, though it was considered in good taste to tip the servant afterwards, which Simmons could not do, since his uncle had possession of their joint wallet. 

Now the thought of such an order put a sour taste back into Simmons's mouth. He said, "I'm afraid I don't have the money to pay you." 

"No need," replied the servant. "I'm going back to the island anyhow." He gestured toward the empty seat in the boat. 

Simmons paused to untie the boat from its moorage. Fumbling for rope and conversation alike, he said, "This is a nice boat. Is it yours?" 

Sol nodded. "A gift from a boat-master I crewed for, over many a year. It was the doryboat for his bugeye once. He retired, gave me the doryboat." 

He did not say more. Simmons could fill in the rest, from what his uncle had told him, one idle afternoon when the only visitors were servants to whom his uncle had given goods without asking payment – hungry Second Landstead runaways, Simmons now realized. 

Sol had nearly ended up as a starving servant, Simmons knew from that conversation. Sol had saved his boat-master from drowning but had been crippled as a result, leaving him without the ability to earn a living. His master, whose broken health had forced him to retire, had nonetheless taken the trouble to pay for Sol's surgery, which had allowed the servant to heal enough to take work with another boat-master. 

"A fine man," Simmons's uncle had said. "A very fine man." 

"Who?" Simmons had asked. "Sol or his master?" 

"Both, I suppose," his uncle had said after a moment. "That's the way relations between master and servant ought to be: affection and loyalty on both sides. Too many masters forget that these days," he added with a sigh and then turned to pull another tin from the diminishing pile, for yet another runaway had entered the store. 

Now, as Simmons jumped into the boat while it departed the bank, he said, "It can't be a coincidence you're laying your boat here." 

Sol waited, oars in hand, until Simmons was seated. "Your uncle done told me last night that you were dining with Master Kerwin today, wanting to be his liegeman. Thought you might need a ride back." 

Simmons, who had been leaning over to admire the practiced sweep of Sol's oars in the water, went still. Finally he said, "You knew I would run away? Master Kerwin has that poor a reputation among the servants?" Too late, it occurred to him that he ought to have taken the opportunity to quiz Golding beforehand about his master. If Simmons had done so, he would have known that he and his uncle should absent themselves from the dinner party. And if he had not been at the dinner party . . . 

"Could have gone either way, depending," was Sol's laconic answer as they rounded the bend of the creek. Simmons understood. If he had been more ambitious, he would not have let any barrier prevent him from becoming liegeman to the Fleet Master's liegeman. If he had been more callous – if he had been like most masters – he would not have cared how Master Kerwin treated his servants. 

He felt his stomach unclench. Sol's implicit approbation of his actions was all Simmons needed to assure himself that he had done the right thing. Except – he corrected himself – he should not have abandoned his uncle to face Master Kerwin's anger. He must apologize to Uncle Will when his uncle returned home. 

"Would you like me to row?" Simmons asked. "I was on the crewing team at school." 

For the first time, Sol's expression hinted at a smile. "No need," he repeated. "It's a pleasure." 

A second approbation; Simmons felt somehow that he had been handed a responsibility to prove himself worthy of Sol's trust. And yet, on this very evening . . . 

Feeling the uneasiness return, Simmons steadied his mind. It would do no good to Sol's nerves for Simmons to blurt out what he had seen and what he had done. He could not go back in time to change his action. He must accept Sol's words as the gifts that they were, and keep them in mind in the future, if some similar test of his integrity should show itself. 

Smiling at Sol, he said, "How go matters at your work? Has your master hired a new crewman yet?" 

Sol shook his head. "Don't need one, this time of year, when we're crabbing. Come oyster season, Cap'n Harvey'll seek again . . ." 

They talked together like that as Simmons lit the lamp he found in the boat, and the boat carried them further down-creek to their home.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

In the summer, tiny fiddler crabs swarmed in the marshland and ditches of Hoopers Island. They scuttled through the warm water, burying themselves in the mud when any man or woman or child passed, peering up cautiously through eyes lifted up by eyestalks, their great claws shyly shielding them. They were called "servant crabs" by the folk of the island. 

Simmons stood so still next to the ditch on his uncle's lawn that the fiddler crabs went around their usual business, without taking notice of him. He found himself wondering what harm the crabs feared from the passersby. 

He heard his name called and turned his head. The fiddler crabs scurried for safety. The call came from his uncle, who was holding an envelope in hand. "Supper will be ready soon," he announced. "Our cook has made a new stew. The crabs are good this season." 

"Thank you, sir," said Simmons in an automatic fashion, staring down at the fiddler crabs. Simmons's uncle had spoken in his usual quiet manner; a few of the crabs looked as though they were contemplating venturing out from their hiding places. 

His uncle played with the edge of the envelope and made several attempts at speech, but his voice failed him. Glancing at the envelope, Simmons said, "Is there news, sir?" 

His uncle nodded. "Master Kerwin . . . Well, I'm afraid he has decided to choose another liegeman. I'm sorry, lad." His uncle rested his hand on Simmons's shoulder, squeezing gently. 

Simmons nodded. He could not have explained to his uncle the wave of relief he felt. His uncle was a gentle man, pure in his motives, and a bit too inclined to underestimate evil in other men. 

"We'll find you another liege-master," his uncle said, but there was no hope in his voice. Master Kerwin had maliciously spread word, far and wide, that young Simmons had boorishly interrupted his prospective liege-master at a supper held in his honor, had lectured his betters on matters they knew more about than he did, and then had fled the supper and the house in a cowardly manner, without permission. 

No, Simmons did not in the least bit regret Master Kerwin's rejection. It saved him from having to explain to his uncle why he would not serve under Master Kerwin. 

But without any liege-master, what would happen to him? The structure of society in the Dozen Landsteads demanded that, as a master, he be trained and employed by another master; he could not hold a job otherwise. 

"Perhaps a third-ranked master would take me," he suggested. "They're allowed to train journeymen, aren't they?" 

"But you'd still have to pledge your liege-service to a higher-ranked master." His uncle sighed heavily. "Well, well. These things work themselves out in time. If you see my scamp of an apprentice, I'd appreciate it if you'd let him know that I expect him washed for supper by the time the sun sets. I am _not_ holding supper for him again." 

Simmons made his way slowly back to the store, his eyes lingering on the Bay water washing up at the store's wharf. He could still write to Eugene and say he wanted to be Eugene's journeyman. It would likely mean he would never again live next to the Bay, with its colorful boats and its rough, friendly watermen. But it would save him from another pathetic search for a liege-master. 

It would save him from having to serve a stranger in bed. 

Sighing, he entered the store. His uncle, trusting man that he was, had left it unsupervised. Jackie was nowhere to be seen. A third-ranked captain was searching through the tins of sardines; Simmons paused to help him find what he needed. He had discovered, during his time helping at the store, that he liked many of the captains of Hoopers Island as much as their servant-crewmen. He had even spent one night contemplating becoming a waterman. 

But while servant watermen were scarce on Hoopers Island at the moment, master watermen were not; captains invariably passed down their boats to their sons. Simmons sighed again as he straightened a sou'wester that was displayed on one of the tables in the store. His father, he was quite sure, would have gladly accepted Simmons as his journeyman. And of course his father, being a relation, would not have required bed-service from Simmons. He could have trained under his father, just as his father and uncle had trained under their father. 

But he would have had to leave the Bay. Truly, his love of the water, and of the watermen who harvested the waters, was proving to be troublesome. 

"Lad!" It was his uncle, banging open the door of the store and startling the captain. "Lad, look at this! Look at this! I opened the rest of the mail— Oh, sweet blood, I never would have imagined!" 

Puzzled and concerned, Simmons took the letter from him. It was from Fleet Master Fletcher – a letter addressed to Simmons's uncle. The Fleet Master spoke with pleasure about his recent meeting with Simmons's uncle. He made a few witty remarks about the dinner. He mentioned some mutual acquaintances. He reflected for several lines upon the intelligence and boldness of the nephew. He expressed his hope that he might be able to meet with the nephew again. . . . 

Fleet Master Fletcher was a far more subtle man than Master Kerwin. It took Simmons several moments to understand. 

"He wants you as his journeyman!" cried Simmons's uncle, making the translation. 

"Are you sure, sir?" said Simmons. He read the letter again, more slowly. 

"Yes, yes! There is a separate letter here from his secretary, indicating that the Fleet Master is willing to interview you. Oh, the honor of it, lad! You would be serving one of the highest-ranked masters in the Third Landstead. And his secretary mentions that, since the Fleet Master is married, he would not require you to do liegeman's service, which I know concerned you. . . ." 

Simmons let his uncle's words drift away. He was remembering the Fleet Master he had met, oh so briefly. The master who had smiled at him. The master who had encouraged him to speak. The master who would not require him to serve in bed. 

The master who had sipped his soup calmly, indifferent to the pain of a servant who was being beaten nearby. 

No. 

"Uncle Will," he said abruptly, interrupting his uncle's talk of riches and fame. "It's very kind of the Fleet Master to make this offer. I would certainly like to do some sort of work connected with the Bay. But . . . I don't think that is the right sort of work for me." He turned his eyes toward his uncle, who was staring at him, frozen in place. "Sir, I've been thinking about how you and my father served as journeymen to Grandfather. And I was wondering . . . Because Father is no longer in this country, you're my guardian, as long as I remain an apprentice. Since you're my guardian, couldn't I ask _you_ to be my liege-master? Wouldn't the law permit that, if I was lowered back to third rank?" 

He braced himself for his uncle's disappointment, for his words of protest. His heart was beating hard. He had no idea what he could do, other than this. He had no other alternatives left. 

"You want me as your liege-master?" His uncle's voice sounded strangled. "Me, rather than a high-ranked master?" 

Amazingly, Simmons had said the right thing. He tossed away the letter, all his tension released into laughter. "Yes, sir, you. I want a liege-master I can honor. You're the most honorable man I know." And he would not have to serve his uncle in bed. It was a small thing, compared to the rest, but it was part of the whole of what he wanted. 

"Oh. Oh, my." His uncle rubbed his eyes, which had grown suspiciously moist. "Well. Well, well. We will have to discuss this, lad. Yes. That's what we will need to do. But in the meantime . . . I had better go look for young Jackie. I can't imagine where he's gone to." 

Simmons smiled. "Yes, sir. I'll watch after the store for you." 

o—o—o

By early autumn, the crabs had begun to sink into the deeper, warmer waters of the Bay. Watermen were spending time helping captains prepare the boats for the coming oyster season. Tri-colored log canoes were freshly painted, brogans had been given new sails, and Jasper Simmons spent much of his spare time watching watermen sit on their wharves, cleaning their oyster tongs, which looked like two great rakes scissored together. 

He had less time than usual, though. As the sun lay low one afternoon, he straightened up from where he had been bending, checking the level in one of the barrels of molasses, and saw a tatter-clothed, capless waterman take a furtive, frightened look around the store to see whether anyone was watching him. 

Mostly hidden behind the barrels, Simmons watched the man for a few minutes, but the servant made no attempt to conceal any of the merchandise under the remains of his coat; he simply stared at the seasoned sardines, licking his lips sometimes. 

Making up his mind, Simmons reached over and scooped up a basket he always kept close at hand these days. He made his way over to the waterman, who was now so absorbed in staring at the tins of mackerel that he jumped, startled, when he saw Simmons. 

"Do you like those?" Simmons asked, clutching the heavy wicker basket with both arms. 

"I ain't— I mean, I wasn't—" The servant, his Second Landstead accent clear, took hold of the ragged remains of his dignity and said solemnly, "Don't got enough to pay for those, sir. Ain't going to waste no more of your time." 

He began to step toward the door. Simmons thrust toward him the basket paid for by the House of Government. "Here. Welcome to the Third Landstead." 

"I ain't— I mean, I never—" Alarmed, the runaway servant took a step backwards, then paused, his eyes widening, as he saw the overflowing contents of the food tins in the basket. 

"You're quite welcome here," said Simmons quickly. "Didn't you know? The High Master has released a proclamation making clear that all immigrants from other landsteads are welcome, regardless of how they came here." He recited the proclamation, which was easy enough to remember, for most of it consisted of his own words. Fleet Master Fletcher had taken all the credit for the idea, of course. 

By the end of Simmons's recital, the Second Landsteader was looking as though he wasn't sure whether to flee or to shout for joy. "You're not fooling me, sir?" he said cautiously. "Your High Master really said that?" 

"Believe he did," Simmons responded with a laugh, in the servant's own dialect. "And listen – I've heard that Captain Harvey, who docks his boat at Back Creek, is short a man this season. If you go to him and tell him that Master Simmons's journeyman recommended you, I'm sure he'll take you on." 

A broad smile swept slowly onto the waterman's face, like a tide turning. "I'll do that, right quick. And I'll be back to spend my money in this store, hear?" 

He left the store with the basket in hand, whistling. Simmons stood in the doorway, watching a group of least terns settle on the pilings of the store's wharf as the Bay water lapped beneath the wharf. The whistling startled them and they flew up, turning their flight toward Barren Island. 

There was a scuffle and a squeal, and suddenly Jackie had his arms around Simmons, squeezing him as tightly as a clamshell. "Simmie!" he cried. "Guess what? Fleet Master Fletcher wants me as his apprentice! I'm going to go live with him at Golden Hill!" 

"That's wonderful." Simmons smiled down at him. No need to tell the boy that this was the result of a bargain that Simmons's uncle had struck with the Fleet Master, who had been reluctant to give up the prize of the journeyman he had selected at Master Kerwin's dining table. 

"I'm sorry you're going to have to stay here," Jackie added, finally releasing Simmons. "That's a low-down shame. You can come visit me if you want." 

"I'd like that." He would indeed enjoy coming to see Jackie, watching the boy unfurl like a hibiscus flower in the sun. 

And maybe – just maybe – Simmons would have a chance to meet Golding again. To offer the young man some service as penance for what Simmons had done. 

o—o—o   
o—o—o


	4. Historical Note

**_Journey to Manhood_**  
**HISTORICAL NOTE**  


**The Bay**

All of the locations in this story – Hoopers Island, Golden Hill, and even the buildings I've dubbed as Applegarth Manor and Master Kerwin's farmhouse – are actual places in Dorchester County ("the Third Landstead") on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, next to the Chesapeake Bay. The Second Landstead is Calvert County, across the Bay from Dorchester County. 

In the 1910s, Hoopers Island was inhabited by watermen's communities. It still is. The shop in my story actually existed in the 1910s, though I do not know its precise location. The shop was owned by a Mr. William H. Simmons; a picture of the shop's exterior occurs on page 83 of _Hoopers Island_, by Jacqueline Simmons Hedberg (a native of the island, as shown by her maiden name). My description of the store's interior is based on Ethel Booze Jones's recollection of the contents of Hoopers Island shops in the first half of the twentieth century, as recounted in her 1998 memoir _To Hooper's Island with Love_, supplemented by Frederick Tilp's detailed account in _The Chesapeake Bay of Yore_ of Chesapeake estuary stores that he visited in the 1930s. 

Despite the fact that I've borrowed the shop-owner's name, Uncle Will Simmons, Jasper Simmons, and all of the other characters in the story are entirely imaginary.  


**Apprentices and journeymen**

In Simmons's alternate universe, the New World was settled by people from the Old World in ancient times, with the result that Simmons's version of the New World retains certain classical and medieval customs that never existed in America in our own universe. 

In classical Europe, society was often highly structured, with Roman and Greek adult male citizens taking the role of leadership and everyone else – youths, women, servants, slaves, etc. – following their orders. In some cases, the citizen men would offer something in exchange for this leadership, such as training or protection. In other cases, the citizen men would simply take what they wanted. And in many, many cases, the line between offering and taking was blurred. In today's society, for example, a working-class youth might apply for a service job, not because she wants to do that type of work, but because the only other choice is starvation. Likewise, lower-ranked classical people often served higher-ranked men because they had no other real choice. 

In Europe, male-male sexual service largely died out as a societal practice after classical times. (In Simmons's world, it didn't.) But for centuries, service in exchange for protection and training continued to play an important role in European nations and European-settled nations. Contracts for apprentices and journeymen often held the same legal and moral force as marriage contracts, as can be seen from this nineteenth-century example (courtesy of the [Shelby County Historical Society](http://www.shelbycountyhistory.org)), which was signed by the apprentice's trustees and the apprentice's new master.  


> _This indenture made the 6th day of April 1835 witnesseth that the trustees of the Township of Clinton County of Shelby and state of Ohio hath and by these presents doth put place and bind George Washington Fox a destitute orphan Boy aged ten years on the fourth Day of July Last as an apprentice servant to Benjamin Vanator of the Twp. Co. and St. aforesaid to learn the trade or occupation of Farming in which business the said Benjamin Vanator is now engaged and with him the said Benjamin Vanator or as an apprentice or servant to dwel and serve from the day of the Date hereof until the fourth day of July 1841 at which time the said George Washington Fox will be seventeen years of age if he so long lives During all which time the apprentice or servant his said master shall well and faithfully serve in all such lawful business as shall be Required of him by his said Master according to the best of his abilities and honesty and obediantly behave himself toward his Master and family and the said Benjamin Vanator on his part doth covenant and agree to and with the said Trustees and their successors in office and George Washington Fox respectively to teach and instruct said servant or apprentice boy in occupation of farming in best manner that he can and that he will provide for said George Washington Fox boarding, clothing and washing and lodging and any other necessarys proper and suitable for such an apprentice or servant in sickness and in health during the time of his term of service and also that he will caus the said George W. Fox to be taught to read and right and so much arithmetick as will include the single rule of three and at the expiration of the time of service to furnish him the said George W. Fox with a new Bible and two suits of common waring apparil and one good sunday suit of clothes. In witness whereof the said Trustees and Benjamin Vanator have hereby set their hands and seals this Day and year first above written._

  
Gradually, as the centuries went on, the concepts of consent and equality became more and more important to people. Egalitarian systems of government swept into eighteenth-century Europe and America, offering political equality to men. As time went on, lower-ranked people – youths, wives, servants, slaves, etc. – began to demand their rights to self-determination as well. By the 1960s, these fervent campaigns for rights had grown so strong that youths began to insist that older adults should follow _their_ lead. 

But _Journey to Manhood_ is set in a 1910s culture. I was curious to see what would happen if a young man who accepted the norms of his society, and who wished to fit in, found himself instinctively repelled by certain accepted practices in his society. How do you conform with the customs of your society without conforming so much that you help old abuses to continue? It's a problem that all youths face, no matter what century they live in.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com). The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2016, 2019 Dusk Peterson. Permission is granted for fan fiction or fan art inspired by this story. Please credit Dusk Peterson and duskpeterson.com for the original story.


End file.
